A Mockingbird's Reoccurrence
by Lipush
Summary: A young girl is murdered in a crime of passion, leaving behind a mourning family, and many unanswered questions. It seems like a regular case- a suspect is cought, confesses the crime, put behind bars; but as many have said before, things aren't always what they seem...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N- Yes, so, this is going to be my second long-story piece. I have this all arrenged Idea in mind, in hopes that on paper it'll be as good as it appeared to be in my head.**

* * *

_~~~"Now, gentlemen, in this country, our courts are the great levelers. In our courts, all men are created equal. I'm no idealist to believe firmly in the integrity of our courts and of our jury system - that's no ideal to me. That is a living, working reality! Now I am confident that you gentlemen will review, without passion, the evidence that you have heard, come to a decision and restore this man to his family. In the name of GOD, do your duty."~~~_

_-Atticus Finch, "To kill a mockingbird"_

* * *

**A Mockingbird's ****reoccurrence**

**Chapter 1:**

She's wrapped with silence when leaving the class-room; her steps are calculated and careful. Her long, velvet dark hair falls on her back, her almond-eyes searching, traveling, looking for any signs of danger.

She finds none.

Making her way towards the ladies room, she doesn't notice a pair of green eyes somewhere, taking in her every move. She opens the toilet's door slightly, her gaze fixed on the sinks ahead.

And then it happens.

She has no time to protest, as her attacker hits her from behind, a crushing fist on her delicate skull, her nape. She falls forward, her eyes meeting her assailant, her lips about to release a high scream of distress, to call her teacher, or an adult, to save her from the wild beast in front.

But the beast is relentless. A hand on her mouth, blocking her scream. She rises up, trying to gain an upper hand on the attacker, but it is apparently useless. A sharp object appears out of nowhere, its aim- her neck. One, then two, three cuts, and it's pointless to try and fight back.

She can taste the drops of red in her throat, on her lips, as darkness envelops her. She's struggling, but to no avail. In her last moments, she can feel herself being dragged into one of the toilet's booths, in despair she grabs an accumulation of soft dark locks, her attacker's hair, and pulls fiercely.

She feels another wave of pain in her neck, and her eyes lose all ability to focus.

A door is being locked behind her.

She lands softly on the seat; her head falls limp on the cistern.

And then, it all turns black.

* * *

The cell-phone rings few hours later. To say Beckett and Castle are surprised to get the call at 10:30 PM, is an understatement. They just finished their nightly cuddling session with a glass of red wine, when the phone chimed.

There has been a murder. The crime-scene is packed up, and they should get there RIGHT NOW. When asking for the address, Beckett's face turns achingly serious when they tell her it's a public school.

It is one of those cases, she realizes.

The engaged writer and detective are in no condition of making any practical flirty jokes this night in cold January. Entering the school's lobby, they understand just how much the place is really packed.

They brought the whole precinct over? She's confused.

They make their way towards the ladies room, the one on the left corner of the first floor.

When entering, Castle can feel the nauseating scent of something he grew familiar with long ago. The tight, uncompromising scent of blood.

A group of cops and workers stand there, closing on the second booth from the right.

Castle gulps.

"NYPD," Beckett pulls out her badge, approaching.

The group nods in acknowledgement, their faces a curtain of melancholy, as Beckett spots Lanie rising up from what apparently was a kneeling position. "Hey, sweetie," she whispers, voice shaken up, "prepare yourself, girl, because this is bad."

Nodding, Beckett and Castle make their way towards the booth itself, to try and take a better look on their victim.

Spotting said victim, Castle feels he's about to be sick.

In all his years working with the NYPD, he doesn't remember ever witnessing such a crime scene. A young girl, settled peacefully on the seat, her head leaned back on the toilet cistern. Her soft black hair covers her face, her arms limp, her eyes closed in a peaceful-like manner.

If it wasn't for the fact that she, as well as the wall and floor, were all covered in blood, Castle would have thought she was probably sleeping.

"Tamara Richmond," says Lanie quietly, leaning back to examine the body, " a 13 year old. Her cell-phone, as well as library card, were both found in her pocket," she notes, Beckett and Castle nodding in understatement, Castle's face twisting in sadness and compassion, "She was found by a volunteer about 40 minutes ago, this booth was locked from the inside." She gestures towards booth's door to make her point.

"A…volunteer?" asks Castle, his voice a bit hoarse.

Lanie releases a painful sigh, "Yeah," she says, "This child was reported missing about approximately 9 hours ago. When she didn't come home from school, dad called the police after his wife insisted he reports their daughter missing. They wouldn't go on a massive search before the 24 hours clock line, so the family decided to ask friends and relative to help looking for her themselves. They started with the school. She was found here, like this."

"Which one of them found her?" Beckett asked, her glance wondering over the group of volunteers, all apparently disturbed and shocked.

"That was David, over there," Esposito appears from behind them, head gesturing toward a tall, blonde man; pulling out his pad, Esposito bites his tongue, considering, "Said that he saw the girl's legs through the thin space between the door and the floor, door was locked from the inside."

"How do we learn that?" asks Castle, interested.

"Mhmmm," Esposito pulls the other detective outside of the booth, closing the door softly. He clicks with his pen on the outside lock.

"Broken," acknowledges Beckett, thinking, "Ok, so," she points out aloud, "The killer drags her from here," she follows the blood tracks from the sink towards the booth itself, "over here…lays her on the seat," she opens the booth's door again, "locks the door behind him, obviously, so no one will surprise him…" she blinks, thinking deeply, Castle nods behind her, "And, how does he get out? Obviously by climbing. I don't see any other option."

"That would be correct," confirms Lanie, "See this?" she asks, pointing at a certain spot on the blood-covered floor.

It takes a few seconds, but Castle then understands what triggered Lanie's interest, "Shoe-prints," he calls, and Beckett's eyes narrow in concentration.

"And not the only one," Lanie continues, "Here," she softly pulls their victim's right thigh aside, exposing another print that holds the shape of a shoe on the lavatory seat, "Here," she then points at the left wall, "and here," she lays a hand on the beam wall, "shoe prints. Now, this is not my field, you guys should tell Gates to bring an expert to check this out."

"On it already," Ryan comments, pulls out his cell-phone, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like 'This would give this high-school a bad name', leaving the ladies-room at once.

"But, what I can tell you, is cause of death, I'm sure that it might interest you," Lanie says.

"Please."

With a gulp, the ME responds, "What I see from looking at her, is three deep bruises to the back of the skull, as well as her nape. But the cuts to the throat, two in number, were her death sentence. Artery was slashed, I'd say it was quick, she never had a chance to survive that amount of blood-loss."

"Estimated time of death?"

Shaking her head considerably, Lanie shrugs, "Based on temperature? I'd say, between 1 and 3 PM today."

Licking her lips, Beckett rubs her face slightly, "What are you thinking about?" Castle asks.

Beckett shakes her head, frustrated, "This is a public high-school, you know how many people pass these bathrooms in two hours? Without cameras watching the hallways…"

"School doesn't have those.."

"-…We have a lot of work to do, here…" finishes Beckett, exhaling. Lastly, she turns to leave the tiny narrow booth, ears catch the muffled and not such much so, noise from the massive crowd outside. "Alright, listen up," she claps her hands twice, all presents in the room cease from talking, and turn to listen to the detective apparently in lead, "I want CSU to go over those toilets from top to bottom. If there are DNA traces, I want to know about them. Flesh, blood traces which don't belong to our vic, I want them found; Hair, nails, soil, dirt, whatever is traceable," the other detectives nod in understatement, "I want to know. Bring a shoe-print expert over, check all the booths again. Karpowsky!" she then calls.

"Yes?"

"While we go talk to the family, I want you and Ryan to check our victim's cellphone. Espo," she turns to the Latino detective, "Talk to the teachers. Did this girl suffer school bullying? She had any enemies or anyone she had trouble getting along with?"

"On it," Esposito answeres.

"I want the school-staff brought over to questioning. We will go through the list of student present in the school between 1 and 3 PM, as well as the workers. Now, let's get this case solved, guys!"

While each turned to their business, Castle held onto his fiancée's shoulders, squeezing comfortably; her eyes traveling over the long silence body, she sighed sadly, "She was just a kid, Castle." She commented, appalled.

Her man-child nodded, pulling her into a hug, "I know," and boy, did he ever; This girl was just a few years younger than Alexis. Knowing they'll have to talk with grieving mother and father, this is one of the things he disliked the most in those cases.

"We're gonna get this guy," he promises, delicately breathing into her hair, taking in her soft perfume.

Beckett smiles silently, letting herself feel the comfort of his embrace.

* * *

**...TBC...**

**P.S- I do love reviews:)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N- ****Thanks for those who follow and comment! Here's the second part.**

* * *

**Chapter 2:**

* * *

Kate takes in a mouthful of the very hot coffee, and feels the liquid burning down her tongue, though doesn't seem to care.

This afternoon was horrible. For all of them.

Tamara Richmond's parents, Lana and Samuel, were given the most difficult news any parent can possibly deal with, minutes ago.

The reaction was difficult to watch. Mrs. Richmond burst with pitiful sobs and howls, mourning her daughter, endless tears covering her face, as she murmured inconsolably "I knew it, I knew it."

The father didn't cry aloud with agony, but dropped his head in sorrow, the tears he shed for his daughter were almost unseen, but they were there, without a doubt. The husband simply wished to be able to hold his wife and be her source of comfort in this time of need.

Tamara Richmond was to turn 13 the week after the next. She was the youngest out of three children. The only daughter, as both her siblings, 17 and 19 of age, were males. Eiden and John were to receive the news soon, as both were out of the city.

Lana Richmond, while loving both her boys dearly, was especially attached to Tamara, so they were told. She had no problem getting pregnant with them, but Tamara's pregnancy was a tough and complicated experience. Born premature, the doctors didn't believe she'll live through the first night, but the baby seemed to struggle and survive against the odds.

Tamara won all her battles, they were told by a tearful mother.

That is, until yesterday afternoon.

And now Kate sits in front of her desk, thinking. Castle's gaze follows her mutely.

His eyes leave hers finally, to dart on their murder board.

It's about time to put all feelings aside, and get back to work; Beckett gets up to leave the hallway, as Castle follows her.

* * *

"So, I walk down to that chick, about to score, when suddenly, these guys show up, I mean, five of them, five! And she just leaves with them, just like that. And I mean, _man_! She had the greatest piece of ass I've ever seen! And those tits! A perfect set of…-"

"DUDE!" Esposito interjects irritably, "_focus_!" he points on the floor beneath them, eyes narrowing. Seriously, where did they find this guy?! He has no respect at all for the situation, keeps babbling nonsense which has nothing to do with the case at hand.

Roger Atkins, their shoe-expert and apparently an eternal bachelor, as he kept repeating, driving Esposito mad with his so many redundant statements, finally does the favor of kneeling down next to the blood spatters and examines them up closely. "Yeah, those are shoe-prints, alright," he offers, shrugging.

Esposito fights the urge to roll his eyes, "Thank you so much for stating the obvious," he basically growls, "Seriously, man, is that your first day? How 'bout being more helpful?"

"Yo, are you giving me _attitude_ right now?" their expert shoots back, "I'm just doing my job, you know! How 'bout some appreciation, my back's killing me here!"

"Well, in that case, it'll be better of you to get on with it, then!" Esposito comments impatiently, "So we can both get the hell outta here."

Atkins sighs, "Snickers, the new model" he determines, changing positions, "all the three prints. One on the floor, two on the wall. I'd say, size…. 37"

"Bro," Esposito exhales.

Atkins blinks, confused.

"_English_." Esposito says slowly. Very slowly.

"Urrrgh," Atkins grumbles, "American size 6," he translates.

"Now we're talking," Esposito writes it down.

"Yeah, yeah, anything else you need me for, man? I have this dinner with Lisa, I just might get lucky tonight." He chuckles.

This time Esposito _does_ roll his eyes.

* * *

"Man, I thought we'd have more time before this thing goes public," Ryan thinks aloud, his gaze fixed on the high screen in front.

"A high-school murder? Really thought so? Dude."

Castle's eyes are on Gate's office, through the glass he can see she's on the phone, and apparently in a heated argument with whoever it is on the other side, "Hey," he points out, "seems like Gate's having a hard time dealing with the case, too."

Three pairs of eyes turn to said direction, and indeed, Gates is not happy.

Ryan hums a soft "Mhhhm", when the phone rings. Esposito picks it up, "Talk to me," he blurts out.

A long moment passes, Esposito's eyebrows narrow slowly, "You've gotta be kidding me!" he growls, "Really? But… Ok, yeah, I get it. Thanks." he then hangs up.

Circling in his chair, he sighs, "CSU checked out the scene. No DNA traces, no soil, no blood trace, not ANYTHING that doesn't belong to the victim." He throws his pen on the desk dramatically.

"What?" Ryan whines, as Kate releases a tired sigh, and Espo comments, "This guy knew what he was doing."

"What about the hair that was found in her hands?"

"It was hers, it seems".

"This sucks, man," Ryan interjects, "We're basically chasing a ghost."

"No, we're not," Beckett rises up, approaching the murder board, "ghosts aren't real, much less kill teenagers. Whoever did that was a human being, with no special abilities, which means he's traceable. What do we know about the people in her life?"

"Talked to her theater teacher," Ryan says thoughtfully, "Tamara didn't have any problem with anyone as far as she knows, although she did seem quiet in the last couple of weeks," he comments usefully, "Her best friend is on her way over here, her name is…" he opens the folder, "Lee Oggani, 12 years old. She's of course accompanied by her parents."

"Ok," says Beckett, "let's see what Lee has to say to us."

* * *

"She was such a great girl, Tamara," young Lee Oggani murmurs sadly, "I can't believe she's gone…"

Beckett's approach is with patience, knowing this is a sensitive issue, any miscalculated pressure and the guardian sitting next to the girl will pounce and hold her back. She's like on eggshells with this questioning.

Licking her lips, she thinks of the way to gain this girl's trust, "I know this is hard for you, Lee, but I need to know, was anything…unusual, happening in Tamara's life recently?" she asks slowly, "anything you can think of, to explain how this sad thing has happened?"

"No….I mean, I don't think so…" she starts moving uncomfortably, and Beckett gets the vibe that she knows more than she's letting on. Quietly, slowly, she sends a warm hand to hold Lee's gentle palm, squeezing softly. She's relieved when the girl doesn't flinch, but tears fill her eyes, "Lee, sweetie, that's ok. Don't worry, we're not judging you or her or anyone else. Nothing will happen to you…But we need the truth. You want Tamara to get justice, don't you?"

Lee nods repeatedly, pulling on her nose, eyes with moist, but she can control herself surprisingly well for a 12 year old; exchanging questioning looks with the social worker and guardian sitting next to her, the young woman nods in encouragement, "Talk to the nice detective, Lee," she urges, "tell her what you know."

Deciding in favor, Lee clears her throat, "about a month ago," she starts, "Tamara started acting weird." She stops there, rubbing her arms uncomfortably.

"Weird…how?" Beckett asks quietly.

"Like, scared weird…" Lee lets in, "She kept looking behind her back all the time, like being afraid someone was following. I thought she was just pulling one on me at first, but then…she started receiving phone calls…"

"Phone calls? From whom?"

"A boy," answers Lee, twitching her fingers urgently, "She said his name is Austin. He got her number from a 'friend', he said. Wanted to meet her. She said she doesn't know who he is, that he should stop calling, but he kept insisting. I told her 'Tam, leave it, just, don't take his calls anymore', and she stopped bringing it up one day, but I don't think he really stopped calling her."

"I see," Beckett says slowly, "Can you describe Austin?"

"No," replies Lee quietly, "I never saw him, when I brought it up she didn't want to talk about it. I know he was from the Bronx, I think he said he was 19 or 20, but I don't really know anything else."

Scratching her head, Beckett considers, then asks, "Anything else, Lee? Anything else you can think of?"

Lee seems deep in thought, "I know this wasn't all that was bothering Tam," she adds feebly, "I know something was frightening her. Some of our classmates bullied her on Facebook about this guy in the 10th grade some time ago. But I know it stopped at one point, I told her to just ignore them and it'll stop. She said it did, but maybe I shouldn't have taken her word for it."

Humming silently, Beckett gives Lee a smile, "Thank you," she said, "and don't worry, we'll find whoever did this."

Lee offers a smile in return, "Tammy was far from perfect, Ms. Beckett," the young girl says, "But she didn't deserve it. I know Lana and Sam are sad. Please find this guy, if not for Tam, then for her parents."

* * *

Teenagers, teachers and workers were brought into questioning; none of them gave the team anything useful. It seemed all pulled the three-monkeys method, none of them knew how or who could have done such a thing to such a beautiful young girl.

They needed their lucky break, and so far, they found none. It was more than frustrating.

The case was all out in the open, the public demanding the identity of the murderer, and identity they couldn't bring them.

This morning, the sun cracks through the clouds, as the detective and writer enter the precinct quietly, about to start another day which might just go to waste if they don't come with an idea to catch this bastard soon.

From the Captain's office, they can hear her uncompromising voice yelling at whoever the poor guy it was on the other side.

Castle frowns, "Hey, guys," he doesn't bother with greetings this morning, "What's with Gates this morning?"

"Dude, you don't even wanna know!" Esposito gives Castle an annoyed glare, "Change those tired looks, boy and girl, we're off the case."

"Wait. What?" Barks Beckett, "How come?!"

"That's what Gates wants to know, too," he says, "This case if off and handed over to the 2nd precinct."

"Get out!" Beckett's eyes widen, "No way!"

"Yes way," Ryan appears, face expressing the same dark mood Esposito is seemly in, as well, "Can you believe it? Something fishy is going on here. I told you," he points out, directing his words at Esposito.

"Why?" Castle feels out of the loop, "Is that a problem?"

The three detective exchange looks, "Castle, ma man," Esposito comments, "Sit," his voice turns awfully quiet, and the four sit in a somewhat circle next to Beckett's desk. "You never heard it from us, but there is a very good reason why Gates there is all Iron this morning. The 2nd precinct?" Castle nods, "They're bad news. Everybody knows that."

"Yeah," confirms Beckett, "At first it was just a rumor. Corruption, bribes, cases turning cold because someone 'played' with the system. At least third of the inside-police investigation department reports were pointing at them doing unlawful actions. We know previous mayors said someone needed to 'clean' the 2nd precinct, but it never came to that. This precinct gives the NYPD a bad name. I don't think they even solve cases anymore, more like interrupting anyone else reaching justice."

"They give 'The horrible-twos' a whole new meaning," Ryan jokes humorlessly, "And now they're fishing on this case? I don't like it."

"And apparently 'Sir' is not too happy about it, either," says Esposito usefully, "I mean, C'mon, the 2nd precinct is on the other side of town geographically. What's their interest in this case, anyway?"

Castle shrugs, as he and Beckett exchange curious looks.

"If they're dealing with it, this case will turn cold for sure. You think Sir can talk the governor out of making a stupid decision?"

"Hope so," says Esposito, "but for some reason, I highly doubt it."

* * *

**...TBC...**

**Please read and review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N****- Thanks for keeping up with me! Here's the next chapter!**

* * *

**Chapter 3:**

* * *

The three homicide detectives and one mystery novelist are quiet as the Captain's door swings shut behind them. Stepping forward to face her team, she emits a quick puff of air, obviously steamed about the phone- call she just finished having.

"I'm sure you already know that we had a slightest…_problem_, with the management of this case," she starts, "as it that the 2nd precinct asked to take over." All four of them exchange unsatisfied looks, something which doesn't escape Gate's attention, "none of us are happy about this, I personally think this is outrageous, but for some reason" a vein in her neck stretches and her eyes narrow in irritation, "this case has turned political, as the second precinct is not the only one fishing on this… I've heard the FBI got the word and some men in very high places are trying to get a piece of 'the action' as well."

"Which is why the governor has a word in this?" Beckett asks.

Gates frowns, "That is what I was told," she finally says.

"But, Sir, the governor? Isn't this overkill, we're talking about a high-school girl being killed here, why does it concern the high-ranking…-"

"I do not know, detective, and believe me, I would have liked to, and I had a very long conversation with the commissioner, so far, whatever it is, we're out of the loop."

"So, now, what do we do?"

"Our jobs," Gates sighs, "the commissioner's orders are that this is going to be both ours and the 2nd's case, as long as we learn to cooperate with them. Two of their teams are to join us in a couple of hours, information, findings- are to be handed over to them, because they'll have the last word." She ends with obvious contempt.

"Talk about a hostile take-over," Castle whispers in Beckett's ear, and she can do nothing but agree.

"I know this current state of things is highly uncomfortable, but those are the orders, and we complete our duties nonetheless." She gestured towards her office door, "Go get me that killer," she orders.

And the four of them turn to leave the office.

* * *

The moment the door closes behind them, Ryan eyes widen, "Guys!" he whispers aloud, "FBI? The 2nd precinct? The governor _himself_ having a say in this? What the hell is going _on_ here?!"

"I don't know, and I don't like this," Beckett leans on her chair.

"You know, usually when I say this you're all pouncing on my conspiracy theories, but this time, you'll have to agree," Castle hisses, "Something bigger than we all know is going on with this case, and I have the feeling that this is way more than the average homicide… who _was_ this kid?!"

"No-one," Esposito interjects, then explains "I looked into the family's finances, their history, career, jobs, family members, friends, colleagues…nothing, nothing to explain the sudden interest of any high-source. I just don't get it." He surrenders.

"Maybe we're not supposed to," tries Beckett, "maybe we're stressing over this too much, guys, look- for all we know, a young high-school student was brutally killed, and we need to find the killer. If there's everything more, it's Gates' job to deal with it, ours is to find whoever is behind this," she turns her head to hunt Castle's eyes, "and that is what we're going to do," she emphasizes.

A lip stretches out, and he's basically _pouting_ at her; Kate holds down the impulse to kiss the pout away.

"So, let's get on with it, guys. The teams should be here in a couple of hours, I want us to be ahead of them, I don't trust them in the least. So what do we know so far?"

"Talked to the guys at the computers-department?" Beckett nods, "Lee's statement was a goldmine. We found dozens of messages sent to Tamara by this Austin guy, they're analyzing them right now. With any luck we'll trace the IP and address."

"Well, that's good!" Beckett calls, then Ryan intervenes, "Another thing we've found," he waves out a folder, "Is a lone hair in the victim's fist, a dark piece that wasn't hers. Our guess, she pulled it out of the assailant's scalp during the struggle. Also, the defensive wounds on her knuckles support this theory."

"And what about this hair?"

"Nothing in the system, Lanie could determine it belongs to a female."

"Which helps us…how?" Beckett huffs.

Ryan shrugs sheepishly.

"Our best bet is now on Lanie's findings," Beckett releases a frustrated sigh, pressing her thumb and index finger through the bridge of her nose; she can feel a headache approaching, "Get hold of CSU again, Espo, there might be something useful in their report."

Clucking his tongue, Esposito leaves the room.

"There's something we're missing here, Castle," says Beckett, as she feels him approaching from behind, "I just don't know what it is."

* * *

Lanie's eyes narrow in concentration, as she examines the body of the 13 year old. Being the experiences ME that she is, at times she can feel the bodies talking to her, once she finds herself lost in the labyrinth of their demise. Doesn't happen regularly, but when it does, she has to stop and listen.

This is the case now, as the body was bruised in such a violent way, but no traceable DNA was left on it. This guy was an absolute pro.

"C'mon, kiddo," Lanie whispers, urging the girl to give her something, anything, to help her get to the bottom of this, "You know who did it to you, you saw his face…" she mumbles, "So why won't you tell me?"

Her gloved fingers press and touch the bruised flesh, as she turns the child's head aside, and that is where something shakes within her. "Wait," she says quietly, as she examines the bruises to the girl's nape, her eyes widening. Softly laying her head back on the cold metal, she turns to examine the cuts on her neck. Two cuts, one…two…

One deep cut on her cheek...

A grin finds its way into the ME's lips, "Wheeel," she releases a soft breath, "This is interesting!" she then turns to the folder of the case, settled on the table infront. Opening it, she goes through the photos, finding a clear shot of the toilet stall, the one where the shoe-prints are clearly visible.

"Bingo!" she calls in victory.

* * *

"Yo, Beckett!" Esposito calls, and both Detective and Writer turn around in their chairs. Beckett notices a young girl, about 14-15, walking behind him. The girl who's tall, brown eyed, dark-haired- and clearly on edge, keeps checking her watch every two seconds. Behind her walks a woman, possibly her mother or another family member.

"Natalie," gestures Esposito towards the girl, "And Ronna" he nods toward the adult woman, "She might actually give us something useful."

Rising up, Beckett shakes her head, "Ok, then," she says, "Let's go."

* * *

"Natalie, can you tell me what happened that day?" Beckett's voice is silky soft, and she remembers that the best approach is with a motherly tone.

Looking for some support in her mother's eyes, and finding encouragement, she blinks, "I just left my classroom at about 1:40, maybe 1:45," she mumbles, "and was going to the girls' toilets. I tried the first stall from the right," her eyes are unfocused in an attempt to remember, "It was open, but it smelled. I noticed that the second stall from the right was locked. I knocked once, but no-one answered me."

Writing it down, Beckett knows this is the same booth in which the young girl was murdered.

"So I just entered the third one from the right. But I could hear someone messing with the seat's cover. They were noisy."

"Did you see anything?"

The young girl shakes her head 'No'. "But I think I might have heard the killer" her eyes goes wide, "I..I don't know! There was nothing I could do! I…"

"Nattie, relax, sweetheart, no-one is blaming you!" her mother soothes her, "The nice lady just wants you to help figuring out who killed the little girl" her gaze darts to catch Beckett's eyes, a look of almost reproach covers her face, for causing this distress to her daughter.

"Anything else you can possible think of?" Beckett sighs.

"It's probably nothing," says Natalie, "But just before I left the classroom, another girl came back to our Drama course from the toilet. I don't know, maybe she saw something. She's younger than me, but this drama activity is not age limited, we have boys and girls from all over the school in this class, so…"

"…-Who was this girl, Natalie? That came back before you left. I need her name."

"Her name's Lee," says Natalie in determination, "Lee Oggani."

* * *

Ryan's elbows Esposito, whispering "Man" when noticing Beckett leaving the break-room, "This is Beckett's 'bad mood' pace." He then turns to Castle, who nods.

"Wonder what that's about," responds Esposito, then calls the female detective, "Yo, Beckett! What gives?"

She frowns, "I want Lee Oggani back in the precinct ASAP," she says, "I had the feeling she wasn't completely honest with me back in the break-room, she was there that day, on our murder-window."

Espo's eyes widen, "Shit just got real!" he says, "You think she knows more than she lets on?"

"I don't know, but why would she hold that kind of information from us to begin with?" she then leaves it, "Never mind that, call the social worker, I want her in the box, NOW."

"Already on it!" he picks up the phone urgently.

* * *

Lee seems extra nervous as she sits slowly on the chair in the interrogation room, the social worker doesn't seem too comfortable, herself.

Beckett throws the folder on the table in front, and sits down. Leaning forward, her tone is severe- "Lee, I think we both know that you weren't completely honest with me..."

"-…You don't have to answer that, Lee" the social worker interjects abruptly.

"Mrs. Rosemond, with all due respect, you're a social worker, not her lawyer," Beckett's eyes turn to the woman in front, "you're here to make sure this minor's rights are being kept, something that I make sure will not be compromised, but this is a murder investigation, and I want answers, now…-" her glance return to the young girl, "I expect some honesty from you, Lee. I'm going to talk to you like an adult, and as one, I take to mind that your sense of responsibility is undamaged".

With a gulp, Lee says, "Alright."

Silence.

"I had to go to the bathroom about 1:35 that day," she starts, "Maybe a bit earlier. The toilet was just being cleaned minutes before, I think." She blinks furiously, "The first door from the right was open," she says, "But It wasn't clean, so I skipped that booth. The second one was locked."

Writing it down, the detective notices her words come in synch with Natalie's, and she pushes, "And then?"

"I knocked on the second one, and I could hear someone was there."

Pausing her writing, her eyes meeting Lee's, she asks- "How so?"

"I heard the paper, like…being rolled. Someone needed a lot of toilet paper."

"Ok, and then?"

"And then, I asked 'who's there'? and there was no answer for a moment, and then someone just said 'occupied'".

That definitely triggers Beckett's interest, "You heard them," she makes sure, "What did the voice sound like?"

"I dunno" the girl shrugs, "Weird. Like, high voice, but strangely hoarse, too."

"Ok, continue,"

"And that's it," the girl concludes, "then nothing. I didn't think it really matters. I guess I was just…scared."

Dropping her pen, Kate exhales, "Anything else, anything else you might think doesn't matter, but you want to share?"

Blinking, thinking, Lee admits, "Maybe?..." when seeing the detective arching an eyebrow, she admits, "When entering the bathrooms, I saw someone there."

"Oh?" Beckett's interest peeks again.

Lee nods, "Yeah. Another girl. Tall, with curls, sunglasses. When I entered the third stall, she just stood there in front of the mirror. She had no make-up purse or anything, when I entered the stall I heard her walking out of the bathroom. And then I got out, and didn't see her. I remember wondering what exactly did she came to do in the toilets."

Biting her lip, thinking, Beckett asks, "Did you know her?"

The girls shakes her head, "No," she says feebly, "I never saw her before, or since."

* * *

"I thought that they should have arrived by now," Esposito growls with annoyance, as he shoots an angry gaze towards the elevator, "They have no respect for the schedules?"

"From what I've heard," Ryan intervenes usefully, "They had investigated on their own for a few days."

"They have?" Beckett asks, incredulous, "Wasn't it first our case?"

"I know as much as you do," Ryan says, scratches his cheek, "I hope they won't waste our time throwing un-based accusations all over…"

"That is unlikely, detective," a tight voice calls from behind.

All four turn around from their corner, finding themselves staring into the stern face of a tall, dark haired man. "Detective Brock, the 2nd precinct," he presents his badge; Beckett recognizes two other detectives standing behind them, "Agnes Leonson and James Peters," the other cops nod.

Some huffs and hums are the respond of acknowledgement from the 3 detectives. Castle just analyzes them with curiosity.

"We're here to thank you and tell you your service is no longer needed."

Beckett rises up, "I beg your pardon?" she hisses. Just who the hell do these people think they are?!

"Detective…Beckett, am I correct?" Brock takes a wild guess. Kate nods.

"You've done an…. Interesting work so far," Esposito snorts in anger, as Castle aches an eyebrow, "But, since the 2nd precinct was always committed to do the job at the best and most useful way… " he continues, "Your service is no longer needed because it might risk the findings…-"

"What does that even m….-"

"What he says is that we found our guy," Leonson interjects, her tone nothing less than mocking, and she points at the hallway.

"You…what now?"

Their eyes spot two male detectives, holding a cuffed man in his 30's, maybe early 40's. His hair blonde, eyes blow, tall, skinny, head dropped in what seems to be almost shame.

He is held tightly by the two men, as they lead him into the interrogation room.

"Meet Anatoly Aronov," Brock says silkily, "The school's repair contractor. He is our killer." The detective grins with self praising.

* * *

**...TBC...**

**Please, read and review!  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N****- Can't thank you enough for following my story, you guys are the best. Please don't hesitate to leave more reviews. I'd like to know what I do wrong and how I can improve, so this story will get better. Thank you in advance!**

**Just to be clear on something: Left side, means the left side of the victim, when facing a person who stands in front of you, it might be confused with the right side. Left side, as in one's self left side:)**

* * *

**Chapter 4:**

* * *

"So, why don't you guys tell us how this thing works, exactly," Beckett muses as the group of seven head to the interrogation room.

"Simple", the cop with the silky voice and puffy hair says in boredom, "While you guys were busy doing…_whatever it is_ that you guys do in this precinct," he comments indifferently, causing Esposito to grit his teeth so hard he might just injure his gums; Behind them, Castle twists his bottom lip doubtfully, already disliking the new arrivals, "We were doing our own investigation. We interviewed some of the teachers," he adds, opening a folder he was holding.

As they reach the interrogation room, Esposito adds with reproach, "So did we. They were a bust, they didn't know anything," he feels the need to defend his team. They've been working day and night trying to catch this guy. No diaper-wearing bozo is going to tell them they're useless!

"Yes, but they've also said that Mr. Aronov sitting there," he points at the interrogation room, "was working at the school till 5 PM. In his questioning, he said he stayed until 2 o'clock because his son was ill," a satisfied grin appears on Brock's face, "We got a warrant to check out his clothes and shoes, but apparently they disappeared- he tried to get rid of them. Now why would someone who's not at all guilty go through so much trouble hiding his clothes and shoes? Unless they've done something wrong with them…"

Indeed an interesting question, but Beckett is interested in something else, too. "You received the warrant to go through his stuff?"

The narcissist grin reappears, "Yes, we have."

"Based on…_what_? The fact that he worked there?"

Brock, seemingly unappreciating her doubtful manner, growls softly, "Because he lied and tied himself to the crime scene at the time."

"Something that happened also with at least 3 other witnesses I've interrogated, I don't see any special reason why a warrant was given concerning this guy alone," she points out, "But I'll go with it," she closes the folder at hand, "Why don't you guys use our box, we'll just…sit this one out?"

Ryan and Espo exchange incredulous looks, though Beckett shoots them a glare, and they know better than to say anything. The three other cops smile with satisfaction, as they enter the interrogation room.

"What the…" Ryan starts, as Esposito fights the urge to rub his eyes in disbelief, "You're letting those guys use our box?!"

"Why not?" she approaches the one-sided glass, "Let's consider this as an educational activity, see how they work…what makes them tick…" she says the last very slowly.

Castle just shrugs when they look back at him.

Back in the interrogation room, the three sit in front of their suspect, who's busy drawing something on a small paper. Castle watches as he moves his right hand about the paper, his strokes hurried and somewhat aggressive.

When he hears the door open, and then closed behind, he stops, and jumps, "Anatoly," Brock starts, "You remember Leonson and Peters."

The man nods, then says with heavy Russian accent, feebly- "Spasibo…" he spread both hands forward, "for no handcuffs." His eyes are small, trouble-seem. "Give me paper…draw family…" his heavy tongued speech makes it almost impossible to understand him.

"Anatoly, we all know why you're here," Leonson doesn't bother with small talk, "You've been lying to us, you said you left the school at around 2 PM that day, but we have at least THREE witnesses saying that they saw you after 4 PM."

His eyes travel across the room, his face twists with an almost painful expression, "No remember," he blurts out.

"You don't remember where you've been at, on a day which a child was killed at your work place?" Peters asks threateningly, "You'll have to run that by me one more time, because I don't believe you in the least…"

"No remember!" Aronov calls again, "My boy sick! I…go home early! No remember when! Teacher see me? Teacher talk! All talk! I not know!" his sentences are broken, his face red as he struggles to explain himself.

"What did you do with your working clothes and shoes? How come they surprisingly disappeared when we searched for them?" Brock demands sternly.

"Shoes?" Aronov's eyes widen, "Shoes in school closet! Not in house! Clothes in closet! I no hide them! You no look in closet! You make mess in my house! You hold guns! Wife scared!" he cracks.

Behind the glass, Castle rolls his eyes, mumbling 'Seriously?'.

"Oh, we found what we were looking for, alright," says Brock, "We've sent those clothes and shoes to the forensic lab, Anatoly. What do you think the results would be?"

"I not know!" the suspect calls, "You take my shoes! why you take my shoes?"

"You know _why_, Anatoly!"

His eyes angry, he suddenly pushes the paper away from him, disgusted, "You come my house, you say, 'Anatoly, you kill girl'…" his voice hoarse, "I tell you, 'I no kill girl! I not know girl! I not see girl!' you tell me 'You killer', you handcuff me, you take me jail, you make wife sad," his lips pursed for a moment, he adds, "I no kill girl!" he points at Tamara's picture, "I no reason harm girl! Why you cuff me?"

"Why?" barks Brock then, all cards on the table, "Because you were there, and you lied about it! Because you tried to throw us off! Because you deserve to sit behind bars for doing what you did!"

"I do nothing!" he defends, "You see results! Results say I innocent! Results say I kill no-one! You see, and I go home to bed with wife!" he spits with anger.

"You know," Brock said, "I thought you were a good guy, I thought I saw some good in you, but you lied to me, and you were caught hiding evidence. I don't like liars, Anatoly. And unless you did that, you have nothing to hide; But we both know the truth, we both know you killed that girl," Anatoly shakes his head in denial, "And right now outside, there is a mother of a child, that cries all day long! And what do you do, Anatoly, hua?" Brock leans back in his chair, "What do you do? Instead of going to her and apologize, instead of going to mom and say- 'Sorry I killed your baby', you sit here!" he points at the chair, "And lie to my face!" his features twist and redden with rage, "And why you did that, Anatoly? You did that because you're a liar, and a killer, and a pedophile, who cut that girl open! I know you did it, and they know you did it!" he gestured towards the detectives sitting next to him, both apparently amused by the complicated scene, "And we all know you did it, like my name is Brock and yours Aronov!"

* * *

"What do you make of this, Kate?" Castle asks softly.

Biting her lip, she examines the suspect as well as detective, "Hard to tell, I'll need to have my own questioning before deciding," she turns to Esposito, who just returned from the hallway, "What's this about the time issue?"

"Checked this out with the station, it doesn't look good for this dude," his gaze falls in Aronov, "His alibi is weak, at best. He was seen by at least 3 teachers and another worker between 2 to 4, he was indeed trying to hide his whereabouts, was lying his ass off when asking about his doings on sad day. Oh, and get this… first results from the local lab came by, the one testing Tamara's trousers. Those are shoe-prints on her pants. His shoes. The blood traces are with their perfect shape." he points out, "Those were the first tests they sent over. Hate to admit it, but it seems this is our guy."

"Really?!" Castle says, "Seriously, this…" he points at the interrogation room, "Is our brutal murderer?"

Ryan twists his face, "I know, right?" he interjects, "I kind of expected him to be more….-"

"Creepy?" tries Castle usefully, "aggressive?" he adds, "I don't know, something about him just doesn't ring the bell, I mean…he's too…gentle, if you ask me."

"Which points at nothing, many of them are," Beckett says, "I guess we can wrap this case once we get the positive results on the shoes."

"I hope it's not him," says Esposito.

Beckett tilts her head, and Esposito adds, "Can you imagine this asshole's gloating if they close this thing without our help? We'll be hearing about this failure for months!"

With a snort, Beckett has to admit he has a point there.

Just when she's about to say something more, her Smartphone chimes. "Hey, girlfriend," Lanie's voice greets her, "You better come down here, there's something you'll need to see."

"I'll be right there," the finishes the call, "Let's go, Castle."

* * *

"So, I don't have the body to work on anymore, since the poor thing was buried today, so you'll have to settle for the next best thing," she points out, "BUT, I found something interesting," opening the folder, she pulls out some photos, "While checking her wounds, I found some shallow decomposed ones, from the attack, on the back of her nape," she says, "on her left side," she emphasizes.

Castle narrows his eyes, deep in thought, as Lanie continues, "Those were not the cause of death, though. Cause of death was her massive bleeding, the artery being slashed; on her neck," she points on the pictures, "Are three cuts. Two that create a V like shape turning sideways, on the left side of her neck, and one on her left cheek. The one on her cheek, though, is clearly discontinues, the others seem so as well, although I'm not 100% positive, but," she points out, "what interests us are those shapes, especially V-shape cuts," she explains, "When I try to create those kind of cuts in the same manner as the killer was doing, It's almost impossible for me, and you know why that is?"

Frowning, she has to think what Lanie's getting at, but then something clicks inside Castle's head, and he grins- "Because you're right-handed."

She points at him, "Exactly!" she says, as Beckett smiles up at him. Her ruggedly-handsome-writer is just so SMART! And she feels a fresh wave of love and appreciation filling her; "In the way it is? It's highly unlikely your guy created those kinds of wounds, in that depth, this triangle- with his right hand. The mark on her cheek only supports that, and look," she pulls another photo of the crime scene, "Look at the shoe prints. There are four," she points out, "One on the floor, one on the seat, another on the cistern, and one more on the beam wall," Beckett examines the photo, "The print on the seat is clearly the left shoe, it's impossible to leave the stall through climbing and leaving those exact same prints with the right leg without losing balance," she concludes.

She then turns to examine the photo of the girl's bruised nape, adding, "I don't know who you're looking for, but whoever left those cuts and escaped that stall, is without a doubt, left-handed."

At that moment, Castle exhales, "Anatoly Aronov is right-handed," he says, and Beckett's head turns to quizzically look at him, "When he was drawing in the interrogation room? He was using his right hand, I clearly noticed."

"All evidence show that he is our killer," says Beckett, "Lies, fact that he was there, clothes…"

"But you've taught me more than once, Kate, that sometimes the evidence don't tell the whole truth," Castle points out.

"Or, the truth at all," says Lanie, her gaze not living the pictures, "Because I wasn't finished," she says.

"Oh?"

"Returning to the cuts and the nape bruises," she says, pointing at another photo, "the depths of the bruises on her skull and nape? They're different in size and scars of the body tissues," she points out, "Both those kinds of scars are closed to her head and jaw. Especially the V-cuts. They're pointing upwards, like at some point, Tamara rose to her feet, and they were done then, when the true comparison is visible."

"Comparison of…what?" Beckett asks.

"Heights," notes Lanie, "whoever did those cuts, and the one bruise to her nape, was significantly shorter than our victim. This bruise here," she points at the nape-photo, "tells me the same thing."

Beckett takes in what it all means, when Lanie concludes, "Sweetie, if you ask me, not only that guy you have there is not your guy, I'm not sure that this is even the kind of murderer you're looking for… this brutal, aminalistic one…" she then finishes quietly, "You're not looking for a massive bully, you're looking for a _child_."

* * *

**…TBC…**

**A/N- Liked it? hated it? let me know!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N : Sorry about this chapter being shorter than the previous ones. Been struggling with the Flu for the last few days, so any writing had to be put aside for the time being. Promise that once I'm fully back on my feet, you'll enjoy longer chapters.**

**Again, thank you for following, please leave your comments and thoughts. It nothing but helps me improve.**

**Grammatical errors will probably repeat until I can express my English in a mother-tongue-like level. When will that happen? I don't know. But I'm constantly working on that, word.**

* * *

**Chapter 5:**

* * *

Brock's upright skeletal standing position threatens to swallow Kate Beckett whole. His eyes narrow, ridges frown, the glint in his eyes ominous.

Beckett refuses to back down, "Lanie's report is strictly clear," she waves the folder in front of him emphasizingly, "You're going to just ignore the findings?" she challenges him.

"We have our own precinct examiner, detective," he rolls mockingly, maddeningly, "He came to the inevitable conclusion based on the evidence presented to him," his lashes flicker dangerously, "You know what I'm not going to ignore, detective?" he whispers silkily, approaching until his face is inches from hers, she can feel his breath covering her, and she's practically about to lose her balance, "The fact that he was at the crime scene, even though he swear he was not. The fact that the girl complained about his behavior, the fact that his shoe-prints are all over her damn trousers, that the cut on her cheek was with his damn knife!"

That catches her attention, "His knife?" she asks.

"Yes," says Brock, "his fricking box-cutter. Found hidden along with his clothes and shoes, all tainted with blood. Now what does that tell you?"

_That you're fishing, and obviously on the wrong pond_, she wishes to add, but refrains from doing so. All she can do is shake her head disapprovingly.

She turns around then, releasing a puff of hair, heading towards the hallway. Esposito makes his way towards her desk, accompanied by Ryan, as he gives a walking-out Brock an angry stare, "I knew these guys are bad news," he hisses, irritated, "Did they even bother to look at what Lanie found?" he wonders.

A low grunt is his answer.

"Where is Aronov now?" asks Ryan.

"Back in holding," Beckett passes a hand through her long soft locks, "their next step is obviously trying to pull out a confession. And I have to say, this does look bad. I mean, if he didn't do anything, why would he lie? Something just doesn't add up here, at all."

"Maybe he covers for someone?" interjects Castle usefully.

"Yeah, but who? And why? He barely speaks English, and doesn't know the teachers or students. I can't find reason in this guy's behavior whatsoever."

Castle bites his lower lip, obviously deep in thought, "So, what do we do now?"

"What we do best," Kate tosses her folder on the table, "investigate. Lanie says she doesn't believe it's a work of an adult, which complicates things dramatically, as we all know," the two detectives and writer nod, "But we do our Job. Espo, call the CSU again, get details concerning the trousers findings. Ryan, check with Karpawski on the computer unit, and ask what's with the IP address we've asked for. Besides that, I want her computer checked and cleaned. Her Facebook, messenger account, E-mail, I want those checked," the detective nods, "I want to know about each kid that might have had issues with her; I don't trust any of their questionings right now."

"Already one it," he calls, and is gone in a flash.

"And what do we do?" Castle pushes eagerly.

"We go over their testimonies again, look for inconsistencies or something that we probably missed earlier," calls Beckett.

* * *

The phone rings, and she picks up to answer. "Lanie here," she answers automatically.

"Parish, ah, at last!" a squeaky voice greets from the other side of the line.

"Natasha, girl, been waiting for your phone call!" Lanie's voice is cheerful once she recognizes the voice, "Please tell me you have something for me. It's like I hit rock-bottom here."

"Well, I got something for you, alright," says Natasha, "CSU looked out for possible DNA matches?" ('The ones that weren't there?') They found two more samples of hair. One on the toilet seat, one on the left wall. They've got it compared to your guy in holding."

Lanie's eyes lighten, "And?" she inquires eagerly.

"Sending you the findings as we speak."

"You know why I love you, gal!" Lanie cherishes.

"Don't be a stranger."

* * *

Her eyes still fixed on the photos of the crime scene and bruises, when her laptop beeps, informing her of a new incoming mail. She leaves the table, approaching the laptop, opening the e-mail, to check the folder and the report findings. Her eyes travel over the information, narrow in concentration, as she takes in the results.

_Hair IC3(32) doesn't match victim Tamara Richmond, doesn't match POI sample Anatoly Aronov._

_Hair IC3(52) doesn't match victim Tamara Richmond, doesn't match POI sample, doesn't match Hair IC3(32)_

_Hair IC4(42) doesn't match victim Tamara Richmond, doesn't match POI sample, doesn't match Hair IC3(32) or IC3(52)._

Passing a palm over her mouth thoughtfully, seriously, Lanie can do nothing but whisper, "Then _who the hell_ was with you in that stall?"

* * *

Thomas Gomez grimaces as he stares at the screen in-front of him. He blinks. Few times.

_This can't be right._

"Hey, Karpawski!" he calls, turning his head backwards towards the officer currently on the phone, "You sure Esposito gave you the right details?" he asks.

"Mitch, I'm gonna have to call you back," she murmurs, then hangs up, "what's up, Gomez?"

"Checked both her computer and cell-phone here," he points at the device, "And this is what I found," he points at the few open windows on the screen.

At first she doesn't even understand what she's seeing, but then, after a long stare, she does.

_Wait_, she thinks, _this can't be right_.

She's going to _kill_ Javier Esposito.

* * *

As they go over the report again, sitting in the main break-room, all 3 homicide detectives and Castle, Esposito's phone buzzes, and he pulls it from his pocket, "Esposito," he says hoarsely, exhaustion clearly heard in his voice.

"Esposito?" a tight feminine voice doesn't bother with greetings, "Karpawski."

"Yo, girl," he rubs his face with his left palm, trying to force himself on staying awake, "Do you have somethin'?"

"Oh, do I?" her voice is pissed, "Actually, I called to say that if you and Ryan are trying to pull one over on me like you did last winter? It's hardly funny!"

"Wait, what?" his hand drops on the table, pulling the curious gaze of his colleagues, "What are you talking about?" he asks.

"Esposito, I called Gomez to check on the girl's computer and smartphone like you asked, trying to nail down your mysterious-guy Austin's IP address," she says.

"Yes, did he trace it?"

"Oh, you bet he did!" she barks, "_It's in the goddamn school, Javier_!"

And Esposito is fully awake, now.

* * *

**…TBC…**

**A/N : More to come soon.**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: ****THIS STORY NOW HAS A YOUTUBE TRAILER! (Just how _awesome_ is that?:D)  
**

**Just uploaded it, you're welcome to check it out.**

**Here is the next Chapter. Please read and review.**

* * *

**Chapter six**

* * *

Javier Esposito is NOT amused. This case is officially getting on his last nerve, his patience growing incredibly thin- "What do you mean, _it's in the school_?" he hisses, ignoring Beckett's urging glare of 'What's going on? Share!'

"You heard me!" The curled detective barks from the other side, "I talked to the principal and school's computer manager, I talked to the digital company, I crossed the information which you gave me, the messages were sent from the school itself! It's a school computer," taking a deep and much annoyed breath, passing the cell-phone to the other ear, she seethes, "Do you mind telling me _what the hell is going on here_?!"

His eyes traveling around the room, thoughts running through his head, Esposito finally addresses his colleagues- "Karpawski says the IP address?" they all nod, "Is originated in one of the school's computers!" his eyes widen.

He then muffles something which sounds like "Talk to you later", then hangs up without saying another word.

Beckett frowns, then turns to look at Castle and Ryan, "This doesn't make any sense!" she exclaims frustratingly, "Austin is from the Bronx, he's in college, how is it possible that he wrote those text messages through the school-channels?"

Ryan is struggling with the though, too, "This is beyond weird," he says, "We profiled this Austin guy in a certain manner, now it turns out it's probably some bored teenager?"

"Who gave us the Intel about this dude in the first place?" Barks Esposito. Somehow he gets the feeling that someone was pulling one over on them. And he doesn't like it. He's been a homicide cop for a long time, now; nobody makes a fool out of him.

Clucking her tongue, Beckett says "Lee Oggani did."

Castle arches and eyebrow, "So either she doesn't know her friend like she said she does…." He starts.

"-…Or she was lying to us," completes Beckett.

And considering the fact that she lied in the past, this is hardly surprising.

Releasing a sigh, Beckett says, "As soon as we finish here, we go check again on all the witnesses who were in the school that day. And we're not cutting them any slack," her next word are directed at Ryan and Esposito, "Teachers, students, workers, I don't care if they stand in line if necessary, we get them to tell us everything they know. No one lies to us anymore. _This ends here_!"

* * *

Esposito and Ryan exchange knowing looks as they open the folders casually. In front of them, in the dark interrogation room, sits Miriam Challeff, the theatre teacher; "Nice to see you again, Mrs. Challeff," mumbles Esposito in somewhat boredom, his eyes stuck in the folder.

The short, middle-aged woman, round glasses covering her pointy nose, reminds Esposito of those days Barbra Streisand would rather forget. Her hair stuck on her head in a weird bun, all curly and entangled, might as well as serves as a beetles nest.

How can any parent let this woman hang around their kid, is the million dollar question.

Shaking his head, trying to concentrate, he starts- "I would like you to run it by me one more time, if you don't mind; what happened three days ago?"

The tiny woman fixes her glasses on her nose, in what probably is an attempt to come down. When she starts speaking, her voice is almost as squeaky as the printer once turned on, "On Monday," the starts, chokingly, "My class starts are 12:30, ends around 15:00," she gulps, "we were about to broadcast a play about a month later, in which Tamara was to have an important role. The duchess' sister, to be exact," she stops there, pulling on her shirt slightly, bringing her round glasses to clean them using the fabric, "We were to have a theory lesson on Monday," she puts the glasses back on, "we did have it. We discussed a theme."

"Mhmm," offers Esposito casually, "And what was that 'theme', exactly?"

"Fear," says the teacher, "I asked each student what they're afraid of, now; not in general, because general fears define you in a certain point it's hard to get rid of them, but each has an instant fear, something that the duchess had to go through, so to get into the mind of the character, I asked the students about their immediate fear. What scares them right there and then, as we spoke."

"Please continue," says Ryan.

"They offered some pretty amusing ideas," she smiles, "When asked about 'here and now', Ronald said he's afraid his movie-date with Michelle will not go well. Natalia said she's afraid to fail in the calculus exam. Paul said he's afraid the this class might never end…" she makes a face, and Ryan holds back a small smile, but then the teacher's face grew serious, "And Tamara said…"

Esposito cocks and eyebrow, "She said…?" he pushes, "What did Tamara said her immediate fear was."

The teacher's eyes are like arrows as she gazes into the detective's eyes, "Death," she says, "Tamara said she's afraid she may die soon."

* * *

"Thank you for coming over, John," says Beckett, as she closes the break-room's door behind her, a quick glance at her watch telling her that she has 30 minutes before 'the push overs' arrive from the 2nd precinct, where they were 'going through the evidence', "I'm so sorry for your loss," she says quietly, as they both site down on the couch.

Pulling his nose, 17 year old John Richmond bites his lip in bitterness , "You found the son-of-a-bitch who did this, yet?" he challenges rigidly.

Taking a breath, Beckett says slowly, "We're still working on that," she must say, it sounds lame, even to her.

John, his dark curls short, his black leather jacket apparently not fitted to his size, as it falls too loose on the young man's shoulders, chuckles humorlessly, mumbling "Useless cops" under his breath.

"I wanted to ask you, since you came back from Washington less than a day ago, and I didn't have the chance to talk to you, did you… know about anything, any problem your sister might have had, anyone who held grudge, anything that can help us find who did this?"

His face twist in spite, "grudge?!" he spits, leaning forward, elbows on his knees in an almost threatening position, "Detective, my sister was not even 13 years old. Who might hold grudge against her?!" he demands incredulously, "What on earth can cause someone to do something like _this_?" he cries, chocked, as tears bile up his throat, "Tamara was a great kid!" he protests, "She didn't smoke, she didn't touch alcohol, she didn't go to those clubs I know her slutty girlfriends used to hang around!" he gulps, pain obvious in his voice, "had I known she might be in danger, I wouldn't have let her out of my sight!" clenching his fist, he bites into it in anger, "And now…my baby sister is gone. My mom….my dad…Eden... he loved Tamara so much… and now…" his shoulders sag in desperation, "_Where do we go from here_?"

Pursing her lips, Beckett cannot answer this question. She can, however, give him some details, "We called in her teachers, people she knew from the school. Her classmates, we follow some leads given to us," John's eyes narrow in suspicion, "some of her friends told us things that might be useful, you might know them, Lee, Natalia, uhhm-"

"Lee?!" his voice fills with anger and protest that Beckett almost flinches, "You asked Lee to give you insight on my sister's life?" wrath radiates from him massively.

"She is her best friend, isn't she?" comments Beckett.

"_Like hell she is_!" seethes Tamara's sibling, "That little bitch should keep quiet! Tell her next time I see her, I'm gonna rip her fucking throat out!" his voice rises in volumes.

That burst of anger tells more about the situation that any other questioning she went through in the last couple of days. Blinking, she askes –"Tell me, John."

"Oh, sure, I'll tell you!" he leans back, obviously shook up but trying to relax, "That skank shows up on our doorstep, about… three months ago? Almost crushing the door open with her knocking, late at night, imagine that, demanding to see my sister. I open the door, about to give the rude guest a piece of my mind, when I see it's that Lee kid. I know her, and she's a girl, so obviously, I'm being polite not kicking her out of the yard, right?" Beckett's look encouraging him to continue, "I tell her my sister is at a friend's house, she's not home, and she tells me, right in my face, that is! That the next time she see's Tam she's going to make sure that even my mom won't recognize her face. I start asking what is she yammering about, and then she says that my sister messed up with the wrong boy, and older kid, who apparently belongs to a much better girl, and that she should pay for it."

Beckett raises and eyebrow; another interesting detail young Lee failed to share, "She said that?"

"Do you believe that little bitch?!" he asks, "I yell at her to get the hell out, that I'm still being the gentleman and all, that if Eden was there he'll give her a lesson she'll never forget. And like that, she leaves. Tamara comes back from school the morning after, crying. She tells me that Lee turned all her friends on her, nobody talks to her because they believe she betrayed on her friends." He hisses.

"I see…" Beckett says slowly, "And how long did this fight continue?"

"It never ended," emphasizes John, "That slut kept calling our house, yelling at Tamara each time that she's going to make her life miserable, and that she should stay the hell from that boy or else…" he bolds, "last phone call we received from her was 2 days before my sister was murdered."

_2 days?!_ "Lee never mentioned having any problems with Tamara, she said she was her best friend, that she was great and she's incredibly shocked that she's gone…"

"That because she's a _fucking liar_!" John fumes, "And that prank she pulled on my sister starting two weeks after that incident?" he notes, "she should be thankful my dad never said anything 'bout that!"

"Wait…Prank, _what_ prank?" asks Beckett.

"Apparently, after a party at a friend's house, she starts receiving creepy phone calls, from a college boy, no less," he emphasizes, "They tell me his name's Austin."

That triggers Beckett's attention even more. Again, that mysterious guy, Austin…

"Those phone calls really creep her out, and giving all that she's going though, her list of friend growing very thin, I take it upon myself to check that she doesn't get into any trouble. I sometimes even follow her friends," from the detective's arched eyebrow he ignores, "Then I catch Lee, with some of the bitches she hangs around with, in the computers' room. They chat and laugh about who will be the next texting her Facebook and phone from this guy Austin."

Wait…Then it means…

"That dude? _He doesn't even exist_!"

Beckett shuts her eyes tightly, momentarily.

"It was all a fucking joke to scare her, to make her sound like a crazy girl, to molest her, that's all!"

And that explains a lot.

"I go and tell my sister about it, and she just tells me to leave it… that they're mean because they think she's bad… but that once they learn it's all a misunderstanding, they'll apologize to her, and they'll all be friends again.." he smiles humorlessly, ironically, "And we both know how that ended."

* * *

Agnes catches her husband sitting in front of the television, watching the news.

Putting the plate on the shelf next to the armchair, she takes a minute to listen to what they say- "Even though an official statement was not yet given, police does say that a man they have in holding might be the murderer of young Tamara Richmond. He ties himself to the scene, and furthermore…-"

"Ohh, Arthur," she exhales, "Please, stop this. To each news addition you listen obsessive for three days now..." she sighs dramatically, "You're torturing yourself over this, darling…"

"Ssshhh," he hushes her, then releases a frustrated breath, "There is nothing new," he blinks.

"Of course not, because both of us know this man didn't do it." She comments, and sits on the couch, "You should go to the cops, darling," she says, "Go, and tell them the truth."

His eyes widen in fear, "No!" he calls, "You heard what they said in this neighborhood yesterday! You know what'll do to me if I go and tell them what happened?"

"Darling, you _must_!" she tries to encourage him, "You're conscience would eat at you if you don't! You know that! Don't you owe that to that girl, to tell the truth?"

"I can't!" he closes his eyes tightly, "I can't! I won't dare!"

"But, love…."

"How can I go to them?" tears in his eyes, those wonder from the TV screen to his frustrated wife, "How can I go and tell them what happened?...How can I tell anyone?..." he gulps loudly, "What an awful thing I did?..."

* * *

…**TBC…**

**Don't you just HATE me now?:D **


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N-****So here is the next chapter. Please read and review. Sorry I don't update too often lately. I'm terribly busy these days.**

* * *

**Chapter 7**

* * *

Peters and Brock sit silently in the small room, poring over two open folders. In-front of them, an impatient cop forces their suspect into his chair, the man cuffed in both hands and legs.

The officers from the 2nd precinct smile at him, and through his cramped position, as he can barely stand to look into Brock's eyes, he can see that there is something behind that smile.

He cannot figure out what it is, though.

Brock smoothers over an empty paper sheet towards him, and puts a small pen in front. "What I want you to do now, Anatoly," he whispers silkily, "Is to write down everything you can remember from that day." He leans back, showing a stance of relaxation, even though anyone else could see it is probably false.

Anatoly blinks, and after some seconds of hesitation, he starts writing down the day's events, as he recalls them.

The computer in-front of Brock sends a ring of alert, informing of a new E-mail. As Brock clicks-open the file sent to him, his brow furrowing, he realizes suddenly that they're having a problem.

Knowing his boss, and after offering Anatoly a casual glance, Peters nods, "What is it, Brock?"

"Mmmmhm," emits Brock, then without a warning, aggressively pulls the paper from under Anatoly's hands, ignoring his gasp of surprise.

Going over the list, then back at Anatoly, he cocks an eyebrow, "Is that the time you talked to your boss?" he pointed at the time written down. A phone-call to his employer.

1:30.

Anatoly nods.

"What did you talk about?"

"Gregory tell me go get whitewash. I go get whitewash for school," Mumbles their suspect.

Twisting his lip, Brock still pushes, "He told you to unload the whitewash merchandise?"

Aronov nods again.

"When was that? When did you unload it?"

"After call." Answers Anatoly.

"How long did this call take?"

Aronov hesitates, "Not sure," he says, "5 minutes," he stutters, "I no talk much, I do work," he feels the sudden need to defend himself.

That's almost amusing. The guy is suspected for a first degree murder, and what interests him now is that he may be viewed as layabout?

"And then?" asks Peters this time.

"Then I go to get whitewash. Truck wait for me outside school. I go get it."

"Which was…around 1:30?"

"Yes."

Releasing an unsatisfied puff of air, Brock pushes the paper towards Aronov again, "Very well," he says sternly, "Continue writing. Don't let me keep you."

Nodding feebly, Aronov soon becomes concentrated on reenacting his whereabouts.

Leaving over, Brock shows Peters a now printed version of the mail sent. Eyes traveling over the list, he can understand what bothers Brock.

Phone call received and answered by Aronov. Starting 1:27 up to 1:34.

"The kid was killed around…what? 1:30? Oggani and Pierce place her at the stall around 1:30?" whispers Brock, his gaze meaningful, "He goes unloading the stocks… comes back to school, then kills her?"

"How long does it take to unload this shit?" whispers Peters back, they both understand this just doesn't add up. The timing is somehow wrong.

"More than 5 minutes, that's for sure."

"If he comes back around 1:40, 1:45? Lee should have seen him."

"Yeah, but…" puts Brock usefully, "Natalie said she asked to leave for the toilet around 1:40, it could also have been 1:42 or 1:45… Lee left just minutes before."

"She should have seen him!"

"Sssh!" demands Brocks, making sure Aronov is still busy writing down his actions, than to listen to their silent conversation, "Nothing is hard science here, there is not exact time of death known, all we have is a bunch of bullcrap given to us by two brats who don't know any better. Kid could have very well died after 1:40. Look, he finishes up his phone call around 1:35, takes two packages, comes back to school, then finishes her off. He has enough time to go back without anyone seeing him at all."

"He goes back after unloading; the lobby is packed with kids at that time, probably, so he waits a few minutes, then goes in. Here, it all assembles perfectly."

Nodding thoughtfully, Brock finally finishes, "Alright, let's wrap it up here and take him back to holding."

* * *

Leonson leans on the wall, pulling up s cigarette from her jeans pocket. Offering her companion a somewhat curious gaze, she chuckles, "light?"

The tall man standing beside her in the bystreet corner brings forth the lightning, and she inhales deeply, offering an almost seductive glare, "So?" she asks, "What do you say? You're in?"

Releasing a snort, his eyes narrow, "You've done a very stupid thing," he tells the female officer, "Coming over here, at this hour. My boys don't like cops hanging around here."

"Oh, C'mon, Stas. We both know they won't touch me," she flaps her hair backwards, "They are very thankful for the nice cop who warned them about the raid 3 months ago. You shows have gone down just for that. Selling 'Molly' to teenagers?" she clucks her tongue, "What's the punishment for that again?"

Obviously displeased, her ignores her last words, "What you offer," he says, "is not simple. We can all get into serious trouble over this. I don't feel like coming back to the joint anytime soon, you read me?" he raises his eyebrows, voice rough.

"You got the 2nd precinct covering for you, Stas," offers Leonson, "I told me team you're the best. Are you going to let us down here?" her voice changes dangerously, "You cannot be that stupid."

Eyes traveling over her well-shaped body, Stanislav bites, "How much?"

"Enough," answers the female cop.

"I don't want my face printed all over for your guys to chew on," he states, "I do this for you, you give me my money, then leave me the hell alone."

"Did I ever let you down, baby?" she challenges seductively.

He smiles.

"So," after a long moment of silence, both enjoying their cigarettes, he asks- "What's this faggot's name anyway?"

Grinning, she says- "Anatoly Aronov."

"No problem," he relaxes, "Give me some time, I'll break him."

"That's all we need."

A devilish glint appears in his eyes, "Trust me, there will be no more problems after I'm done with him. This guy's going down. And painfully hard."

Leonson is deeply pleased.

* * *

Arthur keeps obsessing over the news.

Agnes is agitated.

She knows she must do something, but what can she possibly do?

She can't lose this old man. If he gets locked up for this, who will feed her?

She keeps thinking about it as she washes the sink clean, every now and then sinking back into the same thought.

She remembers that day, his panic, demanding of her to help him cleaning the blood from the vehicle, as she scolds and yells at him, 'What on earth have you done, Arthur? What is this?'

The blood wise wiped clean, but the look on his face haunted her. He told her about what happened, what he had done, how awfully foolish he'd been, how he just wants to take her and run away, afraid that every moment the cops might come knocking…

No, she cannot possibly tell on him. Her poor man. He may be an asshole, but… after that one time in Jersey, a year ago? The man struggling to breath, as her husband punches him mercilessly?

And now this thing with the little kid?

Ah, they won't see the end of this!

Coming up with the decision, she knows she can't rattle on him. Even if it ends up killing them both.

She just hopes it won't.

She really does.

* * *

**TBC...**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N-**** I know, I know, didn't update in age****s, but don't worry, I never intended to give up on these stories, they're my babies. Will update more often, I swear. So here's chapter 8!**

* * *

**Chapter 8**

* * *

As Anatoly squints vigorously, trying to take in the flickering light coming from the old bulb attached to the upward wall, he clumsily drags himself into the dark cell. His eyes burn from obvious lack of sleep, his cheeks sunken, and his back's in terrible condition due to the tough mattress and constant interrogations.

The officer gives him a slight uncommitted nudge forward, and the cell's metal lock mocks him from behind. Gazing around, he has to admit this isn't that bad. The previous cell was significantly smaller than this one, and it smelled.

A lone lavatory was visible in the corner, a tiny sink right next to it. Besides the downside of the malfunctioned bulb, the floor is almost clean and the tiny window isn't cracked.

That could be a plus.

Passing a rough palm through his blond short hair, he exhales as his fatigued body plummets to the bed. It seems like eternity passes, and he still cannot get used to the idea that is being behind bars. He misses his wife and son terribly, and the grudge he holds against his keepers cannot be measured with words.

His mind's running the events of the passing days, and he has to admit he's sure of nothing, by now. Dear Olga repeatedly warned him about the possible outcome of ignoring his psychiatrist's instructions. The medicine is to be taken daily, if not, a possible psychotic break is in order.

When was the last time he took the pill? He can't remember. He was so sure it would be fine, but lately, every truth was shaken out of his world drastically, and he remained like an empty shell.

They tell him he killed a girl. For the life of him, he cannot remember killing any girl.

They showed him a picture, but he can't remember ever seeing this girl in her life, much less in her death. But then again, he considers as he scratches his scalp, he never really aimed at getting to really know the school-children. Teenagers, those were teenagers.

And teenagers are mean.

When he was a young boy, back in Ukraine, he was often abused by mean boys and girls. Mocked for being skinny and stupid. A dark days for him, those were.

He met Olga when he was sixteen. She was pretty, and a bit of a geek, but she understood what it feels like to be socially challenged, and she didn't see him as a laughing stock.

But he was always problematic. Most of the time quiet, but tending to violence when it's most unexpected. So he was treated, and now on the pill.

And they told him non-stop of might what just happen when he stops taking his pill.

Did he kill that girl? Blinking painfully, he hopes he didn't. he can't remember really what he did that afternoon. He may have drank something, may have…done things? But he didn't take anyone's life.

But they seem so sure it's him? And they're cops.

The cops where he came from know best. They wouldn't lie, right?

He's just so confused….

* * *

It takes another two days before Arthur decides he can't possibly take much more of this. The looks Agnes gives him is no real help, either.

As he walks down the path of the twelfth precinct this morning, he is hesitant. Not really finding himself. He asks about the detectives working on the Richmond case.

Soon enough he finds himself in a small squared room, in-front of two male detectives. One dark skinned with a Latin appearance, and the other with a slight Irish touch to his form.

"Thank you for coming over, Mr…" Irish cop says slowly

"Robinson," completes Arthur, "Name's Arthur Robinson," he entwines his fingers nervously.

They both sit infront of him, pads to their laps, nodding.

"We're eager to hear what you have to say, Mr. Robinson."

The old man clears his throat, "Right. Well, I wasn't sure up till now that it was such a good idea, coming here…" Latino cop tiltes his head, and with a sigh, Arthur surrender, "My last running with the cops wasn't very pleasant, but I guess I had to put this behind me and come forward with what I know…" and he gets the feeling he reveals too much. Right. Focus.

Both the male cops wait, letting him take his time, "On that day," he starts slowly, waves his hand in explanation, "The Richmond kid dying, I mean…I was there," he blinks, then explains when he see the look in their faces, "I'm a cab driver," he chirps, and the 'Ah' look covering their features tells him he should continue, "I was called to the area by a client who later on canceled, right where the school is."

Both men write this down, then the Latino cop frowns, "When was that, Mr. Robinson? What time?"

H shrugs, "About 2 o'clock, maybe?" he hesitates, "Something like that. I was about to drive back to the station, when suddenly, three boys jumped into my cab, all like," he gestures with his right hand to his chest, "short-breaths and a little frightened," he passes his tongue over his bottom lip, "but that was not why I was bewildered; they were so eager and urgent to get out of there, and well…." His eyes start to run about the room, and he's suddenly unsure of what he's about to say.

"Well?..." Irish cop urges him to not stop there, "What was it, then?"

"One of the boys," he continues after a long pause, "his shirt was turn, like he struggled with someone, and the other one, the boy sitting in the middle, he looked shocked and scared…He wore a simple white blouse, and it was all covered in blood…-"

That definitely gets their attention, "The boy's shirt was in his blood?" Irish cop raises and eyebrow.

Robinson nods repeatedly, "Yes," he said, "and then he started like…shaking. All over. He kept muttering 'What have I done, I should have stayed out of it, we're in over our heads, what have I done…' and he kept saying it over and over…"

The officers write his words down energetically, and he keeps going, "They asked me to drop them off in a sideway junction in SoHo, and the entire ride one of the boys, the tall one, kept yammering at the boy with the bleeding shirt to keep his mouth shut, saying 'What's done is done'".

He then gulps, "That was right in the school where I picked them to my cab, detectives. And they were behaving way off. I found it odd. And then that kid got killed? I didn't know what to do."

The Irish cop seems considering, "You've waited before coming to us," his voice a little suspicions, why is that?"

The man seems ashamed, "I didn't know where this blood came from," his eyes run about, "I knew it was off, but just later, much later, I realized what it could have meant. So when I got come I cleaned some of the blood which found itself on the seats. I didn't want the boss to get pissed. Later on I figured I shouldn't have done it".

The shorter detective's hand scratches his forehead. Probably lost evidence, he can't be too happy 'bout that, lost blood samples, Robinson knows now he made a huge mistake. He should be thankful he's not in lock up for obstruction of justice like last time. The thought alone is nauseating.

After a pregnant pause, the Latino detective blurts something, chewing on his pen; "Tell me, Robinson," he blinks, "Do you remember which junction it was where you dropped them off?"

Thinking momentarily, Robinson nods, "I do," he said, "I can take you there if you want," he really tries to be helpful; maybe they'll cut him some slack.

"And tell me," the detective leans forward, his face shows that he's 'all business', "If I bring those dudes to a lineup, any chance you'll spot them for me?" his hoarse voice gives him the child.

Gulping, he responds with the same seriousness, "Detective," he says honestly, "there are certain faces in your life you don't forget so quickly. Those were from the above. I'm a 100% sure I'll recognize them when seeing them. I remember their eyes like it was yesterday that I saw them."

Leaning backwards, the detective is evidently pleased. Exchanging knowing look with his partner, he then says, "That good then. That gives us something to work on."

* * *

**A/N-****thinks wi****ll get much more complicated before becoming simpler in this case. Are you still with me?**

**Please R&R**


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